


Tales From Tamriel: Starhunters

by evangwl



Series: Tales From Tamriel [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Multi, Near Future, Technobabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangwl/pseuds/evangwl
Summary: It's the 6th Era. The Second Space Age started, new technology is on the rise, and the world hasn't ended in almost centuries. The Tamriellic Empire is gone, replaced by the Starry Heart Federation. Dragons are trying to become a part of society, lest they face the wrath of the Dragonborn's Heir. The 12th Annual Continental Wild Hunt is about to start, for the first time on television. Everything is okay.Until Paarthurnax is found dead. And the stars start to fall from the sky...





	1. Dragonheir

**High Hrothgar, Skyrim, 4th of Morning Star 6E40**

Davdros snapped his fingers to bring a small flame to life, and held it under his pipe. He took a long drag of skooma, letting it fill his lungs and cloud his thoughts. Davdros held it inhis lungs, trying to get the most out of what little he had left, before he puckered his lips and let the smoke plume in a tapered cloud before him. He had to remember to open the window so that the smoke didn’t hang around and stain everything with its sugary scent. 

Everything about what he just did was forbidden for a Dragon Disciple. The drugs and the magic; a Dragon Disciple had to always have a clear mind. No additives like coffee or skooma, which was in its own legal grey area outside of the monastery. And the magic, well, Davdros could form a flame before he knew all his numbers. When he was given to the Greybeards, he was banned from its study, since magic was a distraction. But no one became a Dragon Disciple to follow ancient laws and meditate. That’s what the Greybeards were for. 

The Dunmer felt his ear tips warm, and everything became sharper. He could probably count all the grains of his desk, if he wanted too. He didn’t, but he _ could. _ Without the skooma, Davdros would have fallen asleep ages ago. Nothing ever happened to a Dragon Disciple; their lives were just rewalking the 7000 steps and meditating upon the Etched Tablets, and bashing each other’s heads in with ancient Nordic martial arts.

Davdros snapped his fingers, snuffing the flame out. He didn’t know if he could be demoted further than he already was, but he didn’t want to risk it, in case that meant getting kicked out. Servitude to the Greybeards in exchange for food and housing was infinitely better than starving in a Dunmer reservation on the border of what used to be Morrowind. 

Most Disciples were in similar boats. Few came to serve the Greybeards; a lot of them use to be beggars or veterans who wanted some stability in life. Some were orphans who were left on the steps of the monastery; those who didn’t display talent in the Thu’um would be relegated to the Disciples. Others were second or third or fourth sons and daughters offloaded on the Greybeards to avoid having another mouth to feed, or would have little to no inheritance and wouldn’t be able to make it anywhere else. Those ones often dropped out to become mercenaries or soldiers once they had decided that they knew enough to not get immediately killed by a passing bandit group. 

Personally, Davdros wanted the food and shelter. He didn’t have any ambitions or dreams of wealth like the other drop-offs; this was as good as it got. The Dunmer shifted on his cuirass, trying to get comfortable on the armour, but Carved Armour was almost as uncomfortable as a seat as wearing it was. He sucked on his pipe again, trying to get a few more hits from the bright orange dregs. 

Echoing clangs were making their way towards Davdros’s room, and he quickly emptied the pipe dish into an ash tray that he hid in his drawer. He tossed the pipe in with it and quickly slammed it closed. “Shit shit shit….” Davdros scooped his gauntlets up and shoved his hands into them. 

Hernen Salt-Liar burst into the room, and immediately zeroed in on Davdros. The young Nord had arrived months after Davdros, bu he quickly rose through the ranks, since he climbed the 7000 steps by _ choice. _The day before, he was promoted to Guardian, and allowed the privilege of working directly for the Greybeards and guarding the path to the Throat of the World. In fact, he was supposed to be guarding the path right now, which was why Davdros had snuck away to take the edge off. 

“What are you doing?” Hernen glanced over his shoulder, then back at the Dunmer. 

“Meditating.” Davdros lied. He owed Hernen nothing. 

“Without your armour?”

“Makes it easier.”

The Nord didn’t believe him; the room still smelled like skooma, and his nose was scrunching up in that annoying way. But, for the first time ever, Hernen didn’t reprimand him for it. “I need you to come with me.” 

“Can’t. Joftnjar wants me on Greataxes today. I have to meet him in 20.”

“I don’t care!” His eyes were wide. Hernen glanced over his shoulder again. “Come with me. That’s an order!”

Davdros sighed. “Why me?”

“Did you not--?”

“There are plenty of recruits more capable and….willing than I.”

Hernen paused. “This is….too delicate for anyone else. You’ve been here longer than most. You’re experienced. I trust you.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Better than anyone else.”

“So your roommate is your only criteria?”

“What part of ‘there’s no time’ don’t you understand? Get dressed and meet me at the Throat!” Henren ran off. Davdros rolled his neck and stood, then took his sweet time pulling his armour on. 

Davrdos regretted it when he came upon the path to the Throat. Normally high speed winds kicked up the snow at the summit, pushing back anyone who tried to reach the true peak of the mountain, the Throat of the World. It was an open secret that the Greybeard’s master, the dragon Paarthunax, resided on a Word Wall on the peak. But today...today the path was calmer than a summer’s day. Davdros could actually stand being outside today. Something was definitely wrong. 

Davdros glanced at Henren, who gave him a grim look, and headed up the path. Davdros followed, keeping a hand on the mountain wall. The winds could return at any moment. Davdros didn’t know if he wanted them too or not. 

“What happened Henren?”

Henren answered with the crunch of snow beneath his boots. 

“I’m not gonna help unless you tell me.” 

Henren sighed. “I was on patrol, and Master usually just meditates…” Henren stopped. “Then the winds stopped...I wanted to grab one of the Greybeards, but something felt off…”

“Spit it out man.” 

Henren didn’t move. “It’s better if you see for yourself.”

When they reached the summit, Davdros clapped a hand over his mouth. “By Azura!”

Paarthurnax’s body hung limp over the Word Wall. It lacked a head. 

Davdros approached the body, looking up at it with morbid awe. “I thought only Dragonsouls can kill a dragon…”

“So did I….”

Davdros swallowed. “Where the fuck is his head?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even think this was possible!” Henren grabbed his hair. “What do we do? We can’t go to the Greybeards with this!”

Davdros grimaced. “I…We have to call Tales.”

Henren clenched his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

**Dune, Anequina, 8th of Morning Star 6E40**

Tales Adroton wasn’t supposed to be here. Or, not yet at least. She sat on a stool at the Grinning Moons tavern, watching Khajiit linger and drink after a hard day’s work. She leaned against the bar, and the Cathay bartender approached. “Are you finally ordering something?”

“Not yet.”

He stared, and Tales matched it. The Khajiit sighed and stepped away to put more bottles of ale on display. Tales turned to watch the door once more. 

A few more patrons filtered in and out before Tales’s confidant sauntered in. An Altmer man who was on the shorter side, but still towered over Tales, and whose messy hair and bloodshot eyes told her that he was either high off his rocks, or already drunk; both were possible in the Elswyer region. He sauntered and limped over to the bar and took a seat next to Tales. Her nose wrinkled. Drunk.

“Lonely Bee?”

The Altmer glanced at her, then reached into his pocket and dropped a few septims onto the counter. “Black-briar Reserve.” The Cathay grabbed a bottle and poured his drink. “I suppose you’re Frozen Whisper.”

“I am.”

The Altmer reached into his coat and held a slip of paper out to Tales. She reached for it, but the Altmer pulled it back. “Payment.”

The Breton narrowed her eyes, but cut a purse off of her belt and dropped it in the elf’s hand. He slid the paper across the bar, and Tales snatched it up. 

“When was this?”

“Three days ago.”

On the paper was a picture of a Dunmer woman shaking hands with an Orsimer woman. The Orsimer Tales didn’t know; she assumed the woman was a peddler of enchanted items, considering who the Dunmer was. 

Ranhyne Mathntella. The Last Dragonborn.

The woman who turned Tales into who she was now. 

“Did you see where she was going?” 

“I just responded to APB. The Orc is Durtha gra-Shumlslag. She owns the Twisted Tooth outside of town.” He downed his drink in a single gulp. "Maybe she has the intel you're looking for. I don't."

Tales narrowed her eyes. "You had next to nothing."

"More than everyone else." The Altmer tapped the bar with his fingertips, and the Khajiit returned to refill his glass. "If you don't like it, then tough." 

Tales briefly considered turning his drink into a bunch of iron beads, but the chance quickly fled when an Argonian stepped into the bar. The Khajiit sneered, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t allowed to anymore. 

Tales sighed and hopped off her seat. She glanced over her shoulder at the Altmer. “Lonely is fitting for you.”

The Altmer waved her away. Tales sighed and approached the Argonian. 

He gave her a quick glance. “Tales?”

“In the flesh. And you’re….?”

“The pilot.”

“No name?”

“Dangerous to give them out in this profession.”

“Sure.” Tales grimaced. She wanted to find the Orsimer that Ranhyne had met.

But she was here for a job.

**A few miles outside of Dune, Anequina, 8th of Morning Star, 6E40**   
The roar of the dragon could be heard over the engine of the biplane. Tales Adroton clung to the wing with a single hand, and reached back to pull her Glass Blow over her shoulder, letting her bomber jacket flap behind her.

  
The Argonian pilot looked over at her. "That really isn't safe!!" Below them was miles and miles of sand and wind-shaped mesas. 

  
Tales points ahead of them. "Neither is that!" They quickly caught up to the Elder Dragon. Vuukriiduul--a recent adherent to the Way of the Voice. The most recent to give in to his inner nature. The dragon had been harrassing Dune and Orcrest for about a month now.

  
"I don't think I'm getting paid enough for this!!"

  
"You'll be fine!! Get me over him!!"

  
The Argonian shook his head, but pushed the plane to soar over and past Vuukriiduul--it always shocked Tales how fast the planes could move. "Now get out of here!!"   
Tales leapt off before he could say anything. She threw her arms out, trying to slow her fall.

  
Vuukriidruul twisted in the air, coming face to face with Tales. She watched his red eyes go wide. "Waahlandovah!"

  
Tales took a deep breath.

  
"JOOR!!"

  
"ZAH!!"

  
"FRUUL!!"

  
When the last word passed through her lips, she felt a force, a power carry it, altering the air under her and strike the Elder Dragon, wrapping blue energy around him and drag him to the ground.

  
Tales watched the dragon panic, and flap his wings to no avail. She nocked an arrow and aimed for his heart, and fired. The dragon roared at the strike; she fired again. And again. And again.

  
"YOL--" She heard him Shout. She quickly called up the magicka from her gut, and guided it through her fingers, then drew a circle in the air and cupped her palm. The magicka coalesced into a green sphere that Tales threw in front of her. It expanded and wrapped around her body.

  
"--TOR SHUL!!" A gout of flame rushed over Tales, and she felt it wash over her and disappate, her Breton blood protecting her from the Shout. What her blood didn't protect, her spell forced to wrap back and fly back towards Vuukriidruul. Reflect Spell--Tales's go to spell, and a useful defense against Shouts, she was quickly forced to learn. And while the flames didn't exactly hurt the dragon, the spell kept them off of her. She fired three more arrows through the shout, hitting Vuukriidruul's throat, chest, and eye.   
Then he struck the ground. A plume of sand rose towards Tales, blinding her. The Breton covered her mouth and called up her magicka again, and threw her hand into the air. Suddenly, she wasn't falling anymore.

  
Flight. Very shaky Flight--Cedrah had recently cemented the mechanics behind the spell when Tales ignored his advice to stop jumping out of planes. But it was still imperfect.   
She basically had to swim to get out of the sand mushroom, then slowly felt the magicka holding her up gradually fade, gently lowering her to the ground. Tales put the bow over her shoulder and approached the mangled body of Vuukriidruul. His breathing was labored, and his neck craned in a sickening way to face Tales. "You are....Voruv, Wahlaandovah. Impure."

  
"Like I haven't heard that one before." Tales sighed. She pulled her goggles down to her throat. "I didn't want to do this Vuukriidruul."

  
"You are weak, Voruv."

  
"Sure." Tales took a deep breath. "KRII LUH AUS!" Each word carried weight, and she felt that force pass through her lips again, slamming into Vuukriidruul. Dark purple runes carved themselves into his scales, and he roared in pain, tensing, reaching a wing out. Then he went limp.

  
Tales watched his body burn up, and closed her eyes. The soul coursed through her, and Tales breathed it in, accepting its warmth as her own, until she couldn’t feel a difference between her power and Vuukriidruul’s. When Tales opened her eyes again, all that remained was the Elder Dragon’s skeleton.

  
Tales pulled her aviator helmet off. She looked around, and only saw desert. The sun was already beating down on her; Tales pulled her jacket off and tied it around her waist. Dune was a few hundred miles away. Tales sighed. “Might as well get started…” She muttered, trudging through the sand towards civilization.

  



	2. The Inventor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we meet Cedrah, a shut-in noble more interested in technology than the outside world.

**Lournes Residence, Wayrest, High Rock, 14th of Morning Star**

Cedrah Lournes finished pulling his hair into a ponytail and covered his eyes with the goggles that hung around his neck. He nodded to his assistant, some Altmer whose name he already forgot, and approached the Arcane Enchanter. Two more assistants snapped the shutters shut and locked them with a whispered spell, casting his lab in darkness. Not two seconds later, the Arcane Enchanter glowed with artificial light, illuminating Cedrah, the Altmer, and a single golden ring resting in the center of the star in a sickly green light.

Cedrah was the first to break the silence. He snapped his fingers at an assistant holding a notebook. “Begin recording. Test number 104. Item in question is a gold ring, lacking any jewels, ring size 8. The metal was transmuted from silver, which itself was transmuted from iron pulled in an Orctown south of Jehanna. Enchantments to be added are: Chaos Damage, Resist Fire, Resist Shock, and Resist Frost. I will attempt Chaos and Fire, while Ms….” Cedrah stared at the Altmer. 

The Altmer sighed. “Helete.”

Cedrah waited some more. 

“Alkinwatch.”

“Ms. Helete Alkinwatch will attempt Frost and Shock. In 3, 2, 1…”

Helete’s movements were graceful, almost a dance as she weaved magicka into two seperate patterns within her palms. Cedrah had to give the Altmer credit, her casting was almost an artform.

Cedrah’s was not so elegant. He took a few sharp breaths before gritting his teeth, and activating Vile’s Sigil. 

The sigil bearing Vile’s mark immediately burned, and he could feel his supercharged magical resistance melt away, opening him up to a wave of magicka that burned beneath skin. Cedrah's motions were jerky and quick as he weaved the two enchantments into existence, moulding the power in his palms. Fire Resistance followed a geometric pattern, a shield that cocooned the caster. It was easy to follow with his eyes; it was Chaos Damage that troubled him. He had to create and hold three separate forms of damage in his palm, and he had to use his ears to follow its progress; if he looked away from Fire Resistance for even one second, it would fall apart, and he would have to start over. 

Cedrah's eyes were starting to tear up from the burning; he gathered up the enchantments in his hands, and his palms felt like they would combust at any second. He took a shaky breath. 

"Now!" Cedrah slammed his hands onto the Arcane Enchanter, forcing the gathered magicka into the corresponding runes. They fought back--enchantments had to be coaxed into the table's runes, so that it could gracefully bind it's magic to the object. But Cedrah didn't have the time for it. If he held it any longer, his arms were going to melt off. So when they pushed, Cedrah pushed harder, until his hands were firmly placed on the wood. 

The Altmer followed the correct procedure, coaxing her enchantment into her runes, and placing her hands in one fluid motion. She shot Cedrah a worried look, but dropped her gaze when he glared in return. They were so close…

Cedrah felt the magic leave his palms, and watched the magicka as it traveled through the markings, slithering like a snake, before striking the ring, wrapping around the band. Unfortunately, the Altmer's struck at the same time, and attacked his enchantments. The recoil burned his hands, and Cedrah lowered his head and kept his hands where they were.

The enchantments fought each other, and each strike made Cedrah wince and whimper. 

"Shit!" Cedrah pulled his hands away, and his enchantments retreated and dissolved into magicka with them. The flow of magicka was immediately cut off with the closing of Vile's mark. The bright flash that followed the Altmer's spells snapping onto the ring wrapped up his failure; the Breton ripped his goggles off and threw them at a wall. His assistants winced at their shattering.

He shoved his hands under his arms. He didn’t want to see the burns.

Vile’s mark was still mockingly warm. 

One of his assistants tugged him away from the table. “Come on,” she muttered. Cedrah could feel their eyes on him as he was pulled out of his lab. His ears caught a “Is he okay?” from the new girl. 

The assistant led him through his bare and modest estate, rubbing his shoulders. An attempt to reassure him. The Breton kept hugging himself. 

Cedrah’s assistant led him to one of the manor’s outer towers, where his personal healer holed himself up When the door opened, the scent of dozens of conflicting alchemical ingredients bombarded his nostrils. His assistant’s nose curled. 

“If you can’t appreciate the musk of what the land offers," The hunched form of an Orsimer woman rose. "You shouldn't be here." Garakh gra-Moth spun in her seat, and glanced at the Breton. She waved pointed at the bed. "Lay him there." 

The assistant led him to the single bed and helped him sit. "I'll check on you later, okay?" Cedrah nodded, and she left. 

Garakh was already grinding up reagents in her mortar and pestle. "You should learn their names. Or hers at least. She does a lot for you." 

"I expect them all too." Garakh gave him a look. The Breton looked down. "I'll learn her name." 

"Good."

"What are you using?"

"Ambrosia and Void Salts."

"Nothing for burns?" 

"Were you using Vile's Mark again?"

Cedrah didn't answer. Garakh poured her mixture into a vial and swirled it until its familiar red tint blossomed. "You know they don't help."

"They ease the pain."

"It's not what you need." She tried to hand the potion to Cedrah, until he held his hands up. She sucked air in through her tusks. "Open your mouth." 

Cedrah opened his mouth, tilting his head back. He watched the herbs that hung over the Orsimer's bed as the cool, but burning liquid slid down his throat. Once the potion was empty, he looked down at his palms, watching the wounds close. He shook his scabs off, exposing the pink skin underneath. 

"How's your binder?" 

"It fits." 

"Uh huh." She points at Cedrah's shirt. He groaned and slid out of his suspenders, and moved to unbutton his shirt. Garakh hooked the top of his binder, looking down at his chest. "Your skin is red. You need to take it off for a day." 

Cedrah frowned. "No." 

"Lournes--"

"No." He smacked her hand away and buttoned his up again. 

The Orsimer glared. "Do that again and I'll leave." 

"I'm not taking it off. I have a party tonight." 

"Postpone the party then." 

"I can't just 'postpone it'. I have--"

"I don't care about The Game, or whatever you rich types call highly ritualized social interactions now. Just don't come complaining to me when you pass out." 

Cedrah grunted. "Can I go?" 

Garakh rolled her eyes and grabbed a weird fruit from one of her bushes. "Sure."

The Breton stood and left the Orsimer's dark room behind. He took the stairs down into the Grand Hall; on a side desk holding several candles and a book on the Reachmen of Skyrim was a Rune specially designed by Cedrah. Only he could see it, and only he could activate it. He ran his fingers over the yellow mark, and the wall dissolved into mist, revealing a hidden doorway. When Cedrah crossed the threshold, the wall rebuilt itself, and a similar rune carved itself where a doorknob would normally go. Several soul gems wrapped in sconces glowed in his presence, casting light over his bedroom. Not that one could tell, if they could see it; several tables full of open textbooks and notebooks scrawled in shit handwriting even he could barely read made it nearly identical to his labs. 

Aside from his bed, the only thing that set it apart was the large apparatus shoved in an alcove. It's working name was the "Jaqspur-mab'ro", using several Ehlnofex words that loosely translated to "Telling a story across a long distance". It resembled an astrolabe with a Greater Soul Gem strapped into the center; the soul gem took signals from several smaller devices that Cedrah handed out to people that he trusted, releasing short or long beep. Cedrah used the beeps to create a coded language that only he and the people he trusted the small devices to knew.

The idea was to create a way of long distance communication that even non-mages could use. But he was tripped up by--

The Greater Soul Gem suddenly shifted from its normal teal to scarlet and started beeping like crazy. The Breton felt his lips curl into a smile, a feeling he was still getting used to. 

Tales was contacting him. 

Cedrah sat at his desk and listened to the beeping; the other recipients had to write their messages out, and he hated having to slow down for them to get the message. But Tales was brilliant. She was a linguist before she had become a Dragonborn, and had helped him develop the language that the "Jaqbro", as she so teasingly called it, used. She had taken to it almost as fast as he had, and could keep up with him when he contacted her. Despite having never met face to face, Tales was one of the only few people in Tamriel that Cedrah would count as a peer. 

ARE YOU AWAKE? 

Cedrah grabbed the Jaqbro's button and typed furiously. WHAT DO YOU NEED? 

There was a small pause, then: STUCK IN ELSWYER. PILOT BAILED. 

He hummed. Cedrah would have to talk to his avionics contact when he had the chance--Tales must have been there for a few days, when it was supposed to be a cut and dry job. Unless…

DID YOU JUMP OUT OF THE PLANE?

A longer pause. Then: I HAD TO CATCH A DRAGON. 

YOU PROBABLY MADE THEM THINK YOU DIED

CAN YOU PLEASE HELP ME? I'M RUNNING LOW ON GOLD

Cedrah's support of Tales was uncharacteristic. He rarely funneled resources into projects that didn't benefit him. But the Grey Beards couldn't support her, outside of training her with her new powers. Maybe it did benefit him; by giving her weapons and teaching her spells that kept her alive, he wouldn't lose a great mind to pick every once in a while. Besides, it won him a few points in the Game to support a humanitarian cause, and few of the other Nobles could say they were keeping the peace and saving the world. 

Maybe it was selfish after all. His integrity was solid, he mused with a smirk. 

I'LL SEND ANOTHER PLANE. 

He set the button down and moved to his desk. Perhaps Cedrah would work more on the device before the party. He had to find a way to let it catch specific signals instead of a bunch of random ones, like radios did…

Cedrah unconsciously scratched Vile's Mark, and instead grabbed a book on Daedra. Something was pricking the back of his brain. The beginnings of an idea. 


End file.
